


tell me what to swallow

by hart



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sick Harry, Sickfic, Vomiting, overuse of italics as per, this is NOT going to be very happy :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3956545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hart/pseuds/hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"We'll get a house in France, someday," he's always said, and Peter's always laughed. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>"You can't leave Oscorp," he'll say, "I can't leave May."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>"I said 'someday'," Harry will point out, leaning his head back on Peter's chest.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In which Harry's been clean and cured for over a year. When his sickness returns he doesn't even try to save himself a second time around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something a little longer, and this came out. I'm planning on making it around three chapters long- feedback is always welcome.

Peter wakes to the sound of Harry's vomiting.

It's six in the morning and still pitch black; heavy curtains drawn across the huge windows in their bedroom. It's Harry's bedroom, really. It's Harry's apartment, but neither of them pay for it. A part of the Norman Osborn empire; Harry was tempted to sell it when his father passed, but once they'd found a cure for his sickness he decided instead to sell his quarters in the Oscorp tower, paying off Aunt May's mortgage, moving in with Peter and turning the place into their home.

 

 _"We'll get a house in France, someday,"_ he's always said and Peter's always laughed.

 _"You can't leave Oscorp,"_ he'll say, _"I can't leave May."_

 _"I said 'someday',"_ Harry will point out, leaning his head back on Peter's chest.

 

Peter groans, rolling over in the tangled sheets before dragging himself to the en suite. Harry's curled over the toilet bowl and there's vomit over the seat and on the floor.

"Harry?"

Harry looks up, eyes red and face pale, and chokes out; "Go- away." 

\------

The radio hums softly in the background; a soundtrack to a tense breakfast. Harry's showered and dressed in one of his Prada suits, prodding at a grapefruit with the point of his spoon, and Peter eyes him carefully over the top of his newspaper. He bites his lip.

"What?" Harry sighs, not looking up from his grapefruit.

"Nothing."

"Peter."

"Look, I was just-" Peter sucks a deep breath in through his teeth, before- "Was it a hangover?"

Harry freezes and Peter regrets it immediately. Shakily, he lowers his spoon, pushes his chair back and stands to leave.

Peter leaps up, reaching out to grab at Harry's blazer.

"Harry, I'm sorry, I just-"

" _Fuck you_ , Peter!" Harry explodes, throwing off his hand.

"It's just you've been really distant lately-"

"Which automatically means I'm _drinking_ again?" and Harry's voice cracks as it reaches an indignant pitch. Peter winces as he sees the tears begin to shine. "What happened to having 'so much faith' in me? It's been over a year, Peter, I can't believe you could think-"

"Harry, I'm sorry," Peter's perfectly aware of the pleading in his voice as he attempts to calm his boyfriend down, "It's just- you've been so stressed- or something- lately, I don't know- you've been in your office so late, I didn't even hear you come in last night. Just say you weren't drinking, and I'll trust you."

Harry gapes in disbelief, mouth open and eyes wide.

"'Just say'- _of course I wasn't fucking drinking!"_

" _Okay!_ Okay. I'm sorry. Harry, I'm really sorry."

Harry's jaw is set in some attempt at holding his emotions in, but he's trembling all over, tears clinging to his eyelashes. He doesn't protest as Peter tentatively wraps his hands around his skinny upper arms and presses a kiss to his forehead.

"I am sorry," he says again, softer this time. "I shouldn't have asked. I do have faith in you, Har. So much, honestly. I'm just worried. You've been working so late, you were sick this morning- I want you to tell me what's going on."

Harry lets out a shaky sigh, relaxing into Peter's grip.

"I know," he whispers. "I'm sorry, too. But it's not a hangover, I promise. I was-" he pauses for a second, then, "I was sick last week. As well. I'm sure it's just a flu, or stress, or something. I'm not drinking. I'm not."

Peter nods, folding his arms around the shorter man and kissing the top of his head. It's a relief when Harry hugs him back.

"Okay," Peter keeps his voice level, breathing in the scent of his boyfriend's shampoo. "You can tell me anything, Har. I love you. You know that, right?"

Harry just closes his eyes against Peter's chest.

\-----

  
There's a man in a suit talking numbers. It looks like it's made out of fucking nylon. The suit. It's heavy and an ugly shade of grey and it looks like it hasn't seen a lint roller in about six months. There's a small mustard stain on the edge of the lapel. It looks around two sizes too big.

There's a man in a suit talking important numbers, and Harry can't concentrate on anything other than the thought of firing whoever hired him. After he fires _him_ , of course. A paycheck his size buys a better fucking suit than that. At least some dry-cleaning.

"Mr Osborn?"

Harry looks up quickly and dots appear before his vision.

"Hmm?" he mumbles, rubbing his eye sockets with his knuckles.

"We're down twenty percent to Stark Industries."

"Twenty percent of what?" he asks, vaguely aware of just how unprofessional he's coming off right now. He can see Felicia frowning at him in his peripheral vision.

"Advertisement sales," the man in the awful suit clarifies. "Do you not think- with all due respect, Mr Osborn- that Oscorp would perhaps benefit from expanding its marketing department, and perhaps cutting down on the shares in CNN? Perhaps simply moving some people around?"

Harry couldn't care less. This man says 'perhaps' too much. His head throbs at the light of the conference room and he thinks that if he doesn't get a cup of coffee within the next three minutes he's going to fall right asleep.

"Felicia," he begins, completely ignoring the man's questions. "Please could you bring me some coffee-and an aspirin."

Felicia nods and Harry smiles a thin smile at her.

By the time she returns the people in the room seem to have gotten both louder and progressively more boring, and the lights seem to have brightened significantly- except for the very edges of Harry's vision which have completely blackened.

"Your coffee, Mr Osborn," Felicia announces, bringing the mug over, and as Harry stands to take it the tunnel vision clouds over in a head rush of dark confusion.

He hits the floor before reaching the coffee.

\-----

Harry's leaning back on their suede sofa when Peter comes home. He looks up from his magazine and smiles his beaming Osborn smile, all charm and $1000 teeth, and Peter narrows his eyes.

"Why are you home so early?"

"It's nice to see you too, sweetie," Harry says in a high-pitched imitation of some 1950's housewife. He shrugs, dumping the magazine down on the coffee table and standing to kiss Peter on the chin. "There wasn't any more to do today."

"But you've been working flat-out for a month?"

"Which, obviously, has paid off. Can you please be happy that I'm home to spend dinner with you for once?"

Peter falters before smiling. He presses a gentle kiss to the crown of his boyfriend's head.

"Of course, I'm sorry. What do you want to do with this rare slot of time, then?"

Harry grins and falls back to the sofa, stretching his legs out across the length of it.

"I've got an idea," he teases, and Peter slides down next to him.

"Oh yeah?" he queries, voice low against Harry's lips and Harry grabs the front of Peter's shirt, pulling him down for a deep kiss.

"Mmhm," he mumbles against Peter's lips.

He maneuvers himself so he's situated completely beneath Peter's body, and when they break away his eyes are dark with lust and Peter can't help but pull him back in immediately, mouths opening and tongues sliding together. He grinds his hips down against Harry's crotch and Harry moans into their kiss, one hand reaching around to tangle in Peter's hair. Then Peter's hands are tugging at the buttons of Harry's shirt, and Harry's eyes are too blown in want to even think to tell Peter to be careful because it's _designer_ , and he's breathing in lungfuls of air as their kiss is broken to pull the shirt from his narrow shoulders. Harry moves his hands down from Peter's hair to drag Peter's t-shirt from his jeans, fingers running over the curve of his rib cage beneath the cotton and coming to rest in the centre of his boyfriend's chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath his palm as Peter plants kisses all across Harry's collarbone, his sternum, his ribs. Harry moans as Peter's tongue swipes over one of his nipples and pushes his hips up into Peter's as he continues to kiss lower and lower down Harry's bony torso, pulling down his expensive jeans. But then Peter stops.

"What? What is it?" Harry manages to get out, breathless.

Peter sits up a little, legs straddling Harry's as he runs the tips of his fingers over a patch of darkened skin on his left thigh. Harry hisses a sharp intake of breath.

"How did you get this?" Peter asks, his voice edging on a whisper. He presses his fingertips gently into the bruise and Harry winces in discomfort.

"I don't know," he admits, wriggling himself upright a little and batting Peter's hand away. "I fell at work today- I probably bashed myself on the way down," he says, but the bruise is darker than something formed less than a day ago. He pushes the thought from his mind.

"You fell at work?" Peter's eyes widen, but Harry waves his hand in dismissal.

"Nothing serious- I just tripped," he lies, and Peter relaxes a little.

"You sure?"

Harry smirks, pulling Peter down for a soft kiss. "Yes, I'm _sure_ ," he reassures, breath hot and tickling on Peter's lips. 

When Peter carries on his ministrations down Harry's body, he carefully avoids the mark.

\-----

"You're going to the doctor's."

Harry groans as the curtains are flung open, sunlight streaming in and hitting his corneas. He covers his eyes with his arm a minute too late, but Peter's crawling down onto the bed and tugging it away.

"Get off," Harry whines. "It's Saturday."

Peter's already up and dressed by the looks of it, and not particularly happy. Harry rolls over, pressing his face into the nearest pillow.

"I don't care if it's the Queen Mother's birthday; you're getting up and going to the doctor's."

"Piss off," Harry mumbles, muffled by the cushion he's buried himself in. He yawns, slowly turning to look back at Peter, squinting in the morning sun. "Why?"

Peter glares.

"You know why."

"Is it 'cause my boyfriend ruined my lie-in 'nd my body's gone into shock without it?" Harry asks with a sleepy smile.

"You passed out at work yesterday."

Harry's face drops. He rubs a hand to his forehead, propping himself up on his elbows and fixing Peter with a tired frown.

"I told you I tripped."

Peter shakes his head. "Don't, Harry. Felicia told me."

"What?" Harry croaks out, as angry as his morning-haze will allow. "Why'd she do that?"

"I asked her to, Har. I asked her if she knew what's going on with you because I'm sick of you not telling me. It's not-" he sighs and his eyes fall to Harry's neck. "It's not like you," he finishes quietly. "I'm worried."

Harry bites his lip, pulling himself up. He places a hand on Peter's cheek, brushing back a couple of brown tresses tenderly.

"I'm fine," he reassures with a soft kiss to Peter's temple. "I was just really exhausted. I didn't want you to worry, I'm sorry, I should have told you. But I'm fine, Pete. Maybe I've just been working too hard, or something." 

Peter leans into Harry's touch, smiling a tight, forced smile.

"I'm worried because you didn't tell me, Har. Please, just go to the doctor's?"

Harry begins to shake his head but Peter continues before he can interject with any objections.

"I know you don't like it, I know, I understand, but Har you've been throwing up in the mornings-"

"Twice!" Harry argues, but he's silenced by Peter immediately.

"That's still not good, Har! Not when you don't know why. You can't remember how you got that bruise, and now you're passing out- Harry please, just, for me. Just get checked out, for me?"

Harry takes in a deep breath, chewing on his bottom lip in thought, before slowly, hesitantly nodding. He feels Peter exhale in relief.

"Will you come with me?" Harry asks in a small voice, and Peter almost laughs.

"Of course I will," he grins, kissing Harry's chapped lips, then his jaw, his neck, the spots behind his ears. "Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you, thank you."

\-----

Peter takes the day off work.

He calls Jameson half an hour after he should have been in the office and manages to just about wriggle his way out of a photoshoot of the newest duck pond scandal, and he comes with Harry to the Oscorp tower. Peter doesn't particularly like it. It's huge and cold and holds too many bitter memories, but Harry's got a personal on-call physician on the top floor that he absolutely insists on going to, and so Peter wraps an arm around Harry's shoulders and watches the establishment fly past them as they take the elevator to the very top.

It's a tiring morning of blood tests and ECGs and endless questions, and Peter can tell that three hours in Harry's getting beyond agitated. He hates doctors. He hates doctors and hospitals and medications and tests. Peter remembers nights spent in the laboratories of Oscorp after dragging Harry out of the hospital because he insisted he'd sue the people keeping him alive if he had to stay in there one more day. Peter would crouch over microscopes and laptops, fueling himself on coffee as Harry dozed on the couch they'd ordered into the lab. He remembers having to check every half hour if Harry had fallen asleep, pressing a hand to the cold, rotting skin of his wrist, feeling for the weakest of pulses.

"You alright?" Harry nudges Peter out of his reverie and Peter blinks.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" he teases, and Harry offers a weak smile.

"I'm fine," he says quietly. It's not very convincing.

"You're shaking," Peter observes, and Harry looks down to his hands. He's clutching at his Oscorp access card for something to fiddle with, fingers trembling around the plastic edges.

"I hadn't noticed," he says, suddenly fascinated with the tremor.

"Probably low blood sugar," Peter reassures, and he hopes it sounds better than it does in his head. "Three blood tests in one morning- do you want me to go get you some food?"

Harry just shakes his head.

At this point Harry's doctor emerges from his office. Harry and Peter both look up, questioning.

"Why don't you come through?" he says, adjusting the glasses framing his wizened eyes.

Harry shoves his card away and grabs at Peter's hand. Peter laces their fingers together as they stand and follow the doctor into the small room, sitting back down in the two chairs placed in front of the desk. The doctor walks around to the other side, touching the table and awakening a mirage of holographic data.

"Have you been putting yourself under much stress lately, Mr Osborn?" he begins, and Harry deliberates for a minute.

"Maybe," he admits. "A little bit."

Harry doesn't like being on this side of a desk in his own company.

"Some of your current problems can be attributed to stress; the exhaustion, the lack of appetite."

"Is that it?" Peter asks hopefully. "Just stress?"

"No," the doctor says, and there's a twinge of regret in his voice. "Unfortunately, Mr Osborn, your blood tests reveal that, although they're not in advanced stages, your infected cells have begun to mutate and, uh, overtake the healthy ones introduced last year."

Harry frowns.

"What does that mean?" he asks, voice level.

"It means, Mr Osborn, that the Hyperplasia has returned."

There's a beat of silence in the office. And then-

 _"What?"_ Peter gawks, disbelieving. "But we found a cure- it was infallable!"

"Unfortunately, it seems as though the genes in the cure simply latched on to the infected cells. Now they have started to mutate again, the infected cells seem to be growing over the cured ones."

"That's impossible."

"I'm afraid it's not, Mr Parker."

"But- well can't we just develop the healthy cells more? Extract some and make their defenses stronger?"

"I'm afraid that, once again, that would just delay the effects- if it could be done at all. The nature of Retroviral Hyperplasia is, uh, relentless. It will cling to the healthy cells until something within the body triggers it to reemerge."

"So the cure didn't work?" Harry speaks up for the first time in several minutes, voice low and cracking just slightly. There's a pregnant silence, but the look in the doctor's eyes answers Harry's question before he does.

There's a ringing in his ears that drowns out anything else said in the office.

 

Neither of them say anything in the car home. Harry leans his head against the window and pulls his hand away from Peter's reach when he goes to hold it. When they arrive back at the apartment Harry goes in first, kicking off his shoes and shrugging off his coat and curling up on the sofa. He hasn't said a single word since the doctor's office. He hasn't shown any sign of _feeling_ anything. 

"Harry?" Peter starts softly, sitting down next to him. Harry doesn't move. "Harry, we can find something. They said we couldn't last time-"

"And we didn't."

Peter bites the inside of his cheek.

"I love you," he says, and it's useless, and it won't change anything, and it won't help either of them, but it's all he can say.

Harry doesn't reply. He just squeezes his eyes shut tight, trying to keep the tears in.

\-----

Peter's fingers are cramped from typing, eyes sore from the light of his laptop by the time Harry moves from the sofa. He'd fallen asleep at around half seven, having not said another thing since he'd sat down.

"Hey," Peter looks around as he hears the footsteps behind him. Harry's tugging on his boots and coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Out," Harry says.

"Where?" Peter asks. He knows he sounds needy and desperate and he knows Harry needs his space but he can't help it.

"A walk."

Peter stands, reaching out for Harry's arm as he stumbles lacing up his right boot. Harry grabs onto him for balance, forcing a smile in thanks.

"Do you want me to come?"

" _No_ ," Harry snaps. He clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath. "No," he says again, gentler, tiptoeing up and kissing Peter's lips, brushing his fingers along the taller man's jaw. "I'm sorry, I just need some air- some time to think. Is that okay?"

Peter nods, placing his hand over Harry's where it rests on his face. "Of course it's okay."

Harry rubs his thumb over Peter's before pulling his hand away and turning to the door.

"I love you," is the last thing Harry says before it shuts behind him.

\-----

He stands outside for about half an hour in the rain. It's a bad side of town, and he knows he shouldn't be here, but nobody's going to recognise him. Nobody's going to care here. The ugly neon sign flashes; simply the word 'BAR'. He lights a cigarette and his hands shake as he smokes, trying anything to help himself calm down, but it doesn't work, it never works, there's only one thing that's ever worked and Harry takes a shuddering breath as he stamps the thing out and pushes open the door.

It's hot inside. He tugs his scarf down and tries not to touch anything on the sticky bar. Pushing all thoughts of Peter to the back of his head as he orders a whiskey, he fingers the one year chip inside his jeans pocket, something tightening in his chest like the beginnings of a panic attack. He presses the medallion into the bruise on his leg through the pocket, focusing on the shooting pain as it digs into the sensitive skin, and his mind flashes with images of bruises going green at the edges, skin peeling and scabbing and peeling and rotting and scabbing- he pulls his hand away and takes a deep breath.

Harry stares at the amber liquid in front of him for another minute.

His hands stop shaking as he raises the glass to his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry gradually deteriorates. peter doesn't quite now how to cope. aunt may and felicia continue to prove that you can't live without a woman in your life.

Harry's smoked a pack and a half of cigarettes by the time Peter returns home. 

His throat burns, but his hands still tremor, and it's just something- anything- to curb the fog of _need_ curling around the edges of his tired mind. He hasn't touched a drink since that night. He'd taken three gulps of his whiskey before dropping the glass, tearing his way out of the stuffy bar and into the rain, sticking two fingers down his throat and vomiting what little alcohol he'd consumed onto the dirty pavement. He'd told Peter as soon as he'd got home. He'd told Peter because Peter deserved to know; Peter who'd taken him to countless AA meetings, Peter who'd picked up his calls at 3AM, who'd picked him up from bars and clubs and stranger's houses, who'd taken him to hospital and bailed him out of rehab and _stayed_ with him through all the awful withdrawals until finally, Harry had been okay. 

He'd walked home, cold and wet and trembling, and as soon as he came through the door Peter knew, and Harry'd cried until he had nothing left to give. 

He blinks himself into a state of awareness as the door shuts, looking down at his cigarette and realising it's burnt all the way down to the filter. He quickly stubs it out and shoves the crumpled packets into the nearest kitchen draw, turning around on the counter to flash Peter a smile. 

"Hey," Peter strides over, folding his arms around Harry and kissing him in greeting. The counter brings Harry up to Peter's level, and he happily wraps his legs around Peter's hips as he pulls him close. "You stink of cigarettes. Have you had a bad day?"

Harry shrugs, running his hands up and down Peter's arms. 

"It helps," he says simply.

Peter doesn't point out that it's not going to help Harry's deteriorating health. They haven't really spoken about it. Peter's done some more research, but everything that comes up is everything he'd found out himself the year before. He keeps looking; every night before he goes to bed, every day instead of taking his lunch break, every moment he's not with Harry or with a camera he's searching for some answer, swallowing the fact that there isn't one this time with a copper taste in his mouth. He knows Harry doesn't want to talk about it. Harry knows he'll have to soon. In the mean time, they create some semblance of calm in their home. Harry goes to work whilst he still can.

He hasn't touched a drink since that night, but the damage has been done, and he sits in his office, mind wandering, fingers quivering. He wishes he hadn't done it. He wishes he hadn't stopped. Peter makes dinner, and Harry barely eats it.

\------

A month later, Peter wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of Harry pacing their bedroom.

"Harry?" he hisses into the dark, sitting up. Harry stops walking, but he doesn't turn to look at his boyfriend. Peter swings his legs off the bed, flicking on the reading light on his way up as he walks around to Harry's front. Harry's completely frozen, eyes wide and _petrified_ of something, his left hand pressed to his mouth, chewing one of his nails. 

"Hey, Harry, look at me," Peter pushes his sweaty hair back from his forehead and Harry's eyes dart to his like a rabbit in the headlights. Something twists in Peter's gut; memories of sleepless panics months and months ago. "What's happened? Tell me what's happened." 

"There's something wrong with my chest," Harry whispers, and Peter's heart shatters. He doesn't sound like Harry. He sounds like a terrified child.

"What's wrong with your chest?" he presses gently. A few tears brim up and spill over Harry's eyelashes. His breathing is shallow and rapid. 

"I don't know. I don't know, Pete, it's going strange, I don't know what to do."

Peter can hear the anxiety rising in his voice so he guides him back to the edge of the bed, sits him down on the sheets and crouches at eye-level in front of him. 

"It's going too fast," Harry chokes out. He's still biting his nails. 

"Did you have a nightmare?" Peter asks and Harry shakes his head with something akin to frustration.

"It's not fast because I'm scared, I'm scared _because_ it's fast," he insists. Peter prizes the hand away from his mouth to feel for his pulse, but he doesn't need to; he can see it in Harry's neck, hammering against the skin. 

"Please, Pete, it _hurts_ ," Harry whines, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his other hand to his chest. 

"Okay, you know what we're going to do, Har?" Peter thinks quickly and Harry opens his eyes a crack. 

"What?" he croaks.

"We're going to go into the living room, and watch a film, and I'm going to make you a cup of tea, and if it doesn't slow down in twenty we'll go to the hospital, okay?" 

Harry doesn't say anything for a minute. 

"I don't want to die."

Peter swallows. He shakes his head firmly, kissing the tip of Harry's nose.

"You're not gonna. Not tonight."

 

On the sofa, Harry lays his head on Peter's lap, and with one hand Peter runs his fingers through Harry's hair, down his increasingly hollow cheeks, avoiding the bruise that's been steadily forming on the very edge of his jaw. The skin has begun to peel and scab and sometimes Peter wishes he could dig his nails underneath the rotting flesh, pull it off and have that be it; a graze and nothing more. 

He doesn't take his other hand away from Harry's wrist. He keeps the pad of his thumb pressed to the pulse there the entire time, waiting for the beating to slow, or steady, or show some signs of returning to normality. Harry's eyes are shut tight in discomfort once more. Peter takes him to the hospital when his nose starts bleeding.

\-------

It's a Thursday morning when Harry's sight falters. It's been about two months since the re-diagnosis, and he insists on continuing with work, despite the fact he falls asleep at his desk every day, and that he can hardly make a signature anymore thanks to the ever-present shaking that seems to get worse at a snowball's pace. 

Felicia walks into his office and Harry jerks himself awake, pushing back his bangs and opening his eyes-

and he can't see.

He can make out the blurred shape of his assistant in the doorway, but the colours are wrong and jarred and half of his vision is smeared in black patches and suddenly he can't breathe either because _Jesus Christ_ he's gone blind, and he wishes the last thing he'd laid his eyes upon was Peter's face and not the latest Oscorp inflation statistics. 

"Harry?" Felicia's rushing over to him, catching him as he slides off his chair in shock and clasping onto his shoulders to keep him upright. He looks like he's going to be sick.

"My _eyes_ ," he gasps, and Felicia props his head up to get a good look at him. His eyes look normal- red-rimmed and panic-stricken- but intact and clear.

"It's okay, Harry, just breathe with me," she soothes and Harry squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, trying to get a hold on his anxiety before he begins to hyperventilate. He's crushing the bones in Felicia's hand, but she just breathes deeply to match his pace until he calms a little. When he opens his eyes again he can see the outline of her features coming back into focus. 

"Are you okay?" she asks cautiously, and Harry swallows, loosening his grip and offering a small nod. Immediately after, though, he shakes his head, breath coming out in a strangled sob and all of a sudden he's breaking down on his office floor, burying his face in Felicia's shoulder and crying his goddamn _heart_ out because this is it; this is his life now; an ugly drag towards an ugly end. 

He quits work. 

\------

He drinks. 

It's a Thursday night and he hasn't come home. He hasn't told Peter about what happened at the office; he hasn't spoken to him all day, and he relies cowardly on the fact that Felicia will probably relay the information before Harry has to see his boyfriend. The girl needs a fucking pay rise, Harry thinks, downing his fourth shot of vodka.

 

It's 1AM when Peter's phone rings. 

"Harry?" he asks, before he even looks at the contact calling. He hasn't slept.

There's a long pause and Peter can hear hitched breathing over the line and his heart leaps to his throat.

"Harry, where are you?"

Harry doesn't reply straight away. 

"I'm sorry, Pete," is all he chokes out when he does, and Peter knows exactly where he is.

 

The car pulls up to the bar and he's outside, sat on the pavement with his knees pulled up to his chest, and as soon as Peter gets out he's up like a flash, swaying heavily on his feet as he flings his skinny arms around Peter's neck.

" _Sorry, Pete, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ ," Harry sobs into his collar, tears soaking through Peter's shirt in seconds as he picks him up and carries him into the backseat of the car. 

"Shh, it's okay," he hushes as the driver takes them home, and Harry cries the whole way back.

When they get in through the door, Peter peels off Harry's clothes layer by layer and when Harry says he's going to throw up Peter carries him to the bathroom and rubs his back as he retches and coughs into the toilet. Peter can feel the places in Harry's spine that should be smooth, and they're sharp and harsh. He watches his ribs expand and contract and shift under his sickly skin, hypnotized by the emaciated motions, blocking out identical images in the depths of his memory that they'd taken months to overcome. He can see Harry's hipbones above his boxers, and patches of bruised and scabbing and green-tinged skin, and he never thought he'd reach a day where the sight of Harry's body made him feel sick. 

Harry throws up for half an hour. Peter gets him glasses of water and wipes a cloth over his face and kisses his temples until Harry's shuddering finally subsides into delirious, exhausted whimpers. 

"I'm sorry," he slurs again, and Peter kisses him again, and thinks maybe he should be more surprised, or he should have seen this coming, or he should be feeling something other than cold. "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sorry, fuck, I'm _awful_ , I'm awful, I'm not worth this, Pete, I tried- I couldn't- _God_ , why did you stick with me, I-" 

"Hey," Peter snaps himself into action and takes Harry's face between his hands. "You stop that right now. That's not fair, Harry. Don't you dare tell me you're awful. Don't you dare tell me you're not fucking worth it, because I would not have stayed with you if I didn't want to; if I didn't love you. Don't you dare, because I have worked so hard for you, Harry," and now Peter can't stop, and he thinks he's crying too, "I have worked so fucking hard to _help_ you, not to _fix_ you. I'm here, Harry, I've chosen to be, so don't you fucking dare tell me you're not worth it."

Harry's struck silent; eyes wide and entire body shaking like a leaf. And then he sags forwards, leaning his head on Peter's shoulder, and he whispers _please don't leave me,_ and Peter sighs because Harry wasn't listening at all.

\------

"Harry."

Peter nudges Harry awake gently. He groans, opening his eyes slowly. 

"Hey," Peter says, and Harry just covers his face with his hands.

"Peter," he rasps, voice raw and sore and hazy memories of the night before come back. "I'm sorry, God-"

"Hey, it's okay. It's alright, Harry, we can get you help again; there's counselors and if you need, we can go back to-"

"No," Harry croaks. He pulls his hands down and looks Peter dead in the eyes, shaking his head. "No. No way, I'm not going through that again."

Peter frowns in confusion. 

"But- Harry it was hell when you tried to stop by yourself last time."

But Harry's still shaking his head, pushing himself into a seated position and trying not to look as sick as he feels.

"No, Peter, I don't want to stop."

Peter blinks.

"What?"

"I won't be as bad as before, I swear, but Peter, I-"

"Are you _mad?"_ Peter demands, and it comes out a bit more aggressive than he intends, "Harry, drinking can't fix this."

" _Nothing_ can fix this!" Harry yells, and Peter jumps. Harry sighs, shaking his head, and when he carries on his voice is much, much smaller. "I only stopped to have a future with you. I- there's no point now. I don't want to spend my last months in rehab, Peter, I want to spend them with you."

Peter's speechless for a moment, head reeling. 

"Harry, you've got longer than months," is all he can come out with, and he knows as soon as the words leave his mouth that they're not true. Harry says nothing to this, and Peter bites his lip, pressing their foreheads together and tucking a coupe of strands of hair behind Harry's ears. Harry closes his eyes, and tries to swallow the sudden urge to cry.

"I'm going to see May for a bit today," Peter says softly. "Think you'll be alright on your own for a couple of hours?" 

Harry nods stiffly, eyes still shut. 

"Hey, it's okay, Harry, it's okay," Peter breathes as the tears start to fall and Harry fucking _hates_ this, he hates _all_ of it, and he hates how he doesn't know why he's crying and he takes a shuddering breath, pulling back from Peter and swiping at his eyes.

"I know," he says, offering a watery smile. "Give her my love."

Peter deliberates leaving Harry alone for a minute more, before kissing him firmly.

"I won't be long."

\------

Peter walks there. It's tipping with rain and by the time he reaches his aunt's front porch he's absolutely soaked through and shivering. He knocks on the door, and May opens it, and suddenly every fraction of composure he's been holding in for the last month seems to shatter at the sight of her warm face. 

"He's sick again," is what Peter says instead of a hello. It comes out mangled and cracked and he falls into her arms when she drags him from the rain. "He's sick again, May, and there's nothing I can do this time."

"Come inside, come on," she half-supports Peter into his childhood home, sits him down and there's a towel and a cup of tea in front of him in less than five minutes, and he's still crying because he can't at Harry's, he can't around Harry, because he can't let on just how lost and scared he is himself. Peter lets it all flood out; how the cure didn't work, how Harry's getting sicker faster this time, how he picked him up from a bar at one in the morning last night and how Harry seems to be giving up on himself at a terrifyingly rapid pace. 

"I can't lose him too," he chokes, and May runs a hand through his hair.

"You're going to destroy yourself thinking like that," she says. "If he wants to drink again, you can't stop him, Peter, or you'll spend what time you have left with him fighting. The only thing you can do is make use of it."

It hurts to hear. Peter was almost half-expecting her to tell him it's going to be alright, he'll make it because he's done it before. He calms his breathing and wipes his face and sits up straight, taking in a long, shaking sigh.

"What do you suggest I do?"

\------

"We're going on holiday," Peter announces the next day.

It's nine in the morning, which is earlier than Harry's been awake for the last week, and he opens his eyes tiredly. They're out of focus and glazed over; the shadows beneath them looking like contusions against his pale skin.

"What?" he asks, voice rough with exhaustion. 

"You alright, buddy?" Peter sits down on the bed next to him and places a hand over Harry's sweaty forehead. He's burning up. Harry stretches his neck upwards to lean into the cool touch of Peter's hand, and Peter can tell it's going to be one of his bad days. "We're going on holiday," he says again and Harry frowns slightly.

"Why?" 

"Because we deserve one," Peter says, and Harry smiles slightly at that.

"Where?" he asks next, rolling to rest his head on Peter's thighs.

"You'll see," Peter teases and Harry grins lazily, eyes sliding shut.

"You spoil me," he slurs. "When d'we leave?"

"An hour," Peter says, stroking Harry's hair. "Think you'll be alright to go today? We can always delay it."

The perks of having a billionaire boyfriend were never-ending in terms of luxury, and Peter had managed to find Harry's personal pilot in an address book in the kitchen. He'd already been out and down to stock Harry's jet with DVDs and blankets and medication. 

"Mmhm," Harry hums. "C'n you help me pack?" 

"Already done for you," Peter responds proudly and Harry shakes his head. 

"No, no, you have to do it again," he mumbles. "You won't pick any clothes that go."

"Hey," Peter grins. "I have great taste."

Harry's still shaking his head. 

"Awful," he murmurs and Peter shuts him up with a kiss.

"You're delirious, you don't know what you're saying," he insists, and Harry laughs, weakly swatting Peter's arm away. 

\------

Harry sleeps for most of the plane journey. It's seven hours to Paris, and about five hours through his head begins to weigh uncomfortably on Peter's shoulder, so he nudges him awake to point out the clouds below. 

"Where are we?" Harry asks, and his voice feels like sandpaper in his throat. 

"Somewhere over Europe, I'd imagine," Peter says. "How are you feeling?"

He doesn't look well, that's for sure, although Peter thinks maybe half of that is down to the fact he's wearing one of Peter's raggedy old knitted jumpers over his striped pyjama trousers. He looks absolutely ridiculous. The thing is about two sizes too long on him, and about a size and a half too big since he's lost so much weight recently. Peter can't for the life of him figure out why Harry, who complained about Peter picking out one Dolce and Gabbana shirt over another, has become so attached to the ratty thing, but he's barely taken it off in three days. The ugly shade of maroon wool just contrasts frighteningly with the green-white of Harry's skin. The neckline comes down low enough to reveal a new sore curling over the protruding bone of Harry's clavicle. 

"Sick," Harry says eventually.

"You gonna be sick?"

Harry pauses in thought before shaking his head. 

"Are we nearly there?"

"Couple more hours," Peter says, wrapping an arm around Harry's narrow shoulders. "You gonna get changed before we land?"

Harry looks up at him, brow furrowed.

"Why?"

Peter tries to hold back a laugh at the idea of French tabloids getting a snap of Harry in his pyjamas and the woolen monstrosity. Peter brushes a crumb from his own jeans, and admits to himself that, for once, he's made better fashion choices than his boyfriend.

"Because, no offence, Har, but you look like you're homeless."

"I'm comfy," Harry retorts. Peter smiles, letting Harry's head fall back to his chest, and Harry listens to Peter's heartbeat until he falls to sleep.

\------

They walk through Montmartre their first day there. It's snowing, and Peter has to keep looking at Harry to make sure he's handling the cold okay, and Harry has to keep telling Peter to stop worrying, because really, he feels much better than he did yesterday, and this was such a lovely idea, really. Peter's got his red hat pulled down over his ears and his cord jacket collar pulled up over his neck, and Harry's in three layers of Gucci, but Peter can see the ends of his ugly knitted sweater poking out from designer sleeves and he smiles. Their glove-clad fingers are laced together as Peter pulls Harry up the hill to the Sacré-Cœur; a great white church with doming turrets and snow settled in curving dips in the roof. Harry sits on the steps outside as Peter takes countless pictures. Pictures of the beautiful building, pictures of iconic Paris stair rails, and pictures of Harry looking absently into the distance, snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. He perches down next to him and can't help but take his face in his hands and kiss the snow gently from his eyelids, from the tip of his nose, from his chapped lips. 

"I love you," he whispers, and Harry laughs, struggling away from the sudden attack of affection. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Harry gives up his fight and melts into Peter's arms, nuzzling the damp collar of his jacket.

"I love you too," he breathes against Peter's neck, relaxed in cold content. When he pulls back Peter tells him his lips are blue, and they leave the monument to find a cafe, clinging to each other in an attempt not to slide down the snowy hill.

 

They spend four days strolling around icy Paris hand in hand, returning to their tiny flat each evening with takeout pizza, or onion soup which Peter somehow manages to burn on the stove, or French bread because Harry insists they're not in France until they've had a real French baguette. Peter bites his lip and pretends not to notice if Harry has a glass of wine a little too early in the afternoons if Harry pretends the shaking in his hands is entirely down to the Hyperplasia. 

 

On Sunday night Harry crawls over to Peter on the tiny bed and begins to kiss his neck, his collar bone, his chest, and soon they're both moving together, slick with sweat and whimpering as Peter rocks gently into Harry, slow and steady and torturous as if he holds onto Harry tight enough he can keep him in this world for longer. He kisses at his bruises and at the bones that stick out too far and he kisses at the tears that slide down Harry's face and Harry moans his release into Peter's neck.

 

On Monday they go to the Louvre and Harry sees a side of Peter he hasn't seen before. Peter walks silently around, staring in awe at the high, elaborate ceilings, pausing at pieces of art and looking at them like how Harry catches Peter looking at him sometimes. Harry likes art, but he can tell Peter _reveres_ it, and so he stays quiet himself, letting his boyfriend drift pensively through the museum as he follows. He attempts to let Peter cover the whole place, but around two hours into exploring his ears begin to ring and his lungs to start to burn and he has to sit down to catch his breath as his chest tightens like a screw. 

"I'm okay," he manages to get out, desperate to allow Peter more time inside the museum, but Peter just shakes his head and helps Harry to his feet, carrying most of his weight as they leave, hailing a taxi, and requesting their temporary address in a hurry. Harry's trembling by the time they get into their flat, and Peter seats him on the threadbare sofa before his knees completely give out, unbuttoning his coat and unraveling the scarf around his neck. Harry starts to push his hands away, embarrassed at how they shake too much to help himself, but then his nose starts bleeding and before Peter has time to register what's happened Harry's eyes are rolling back in his head and he's fitting and _Jesus, fuck,_ Peter doesn't know what the fuck to do because this never happened last year, it never got this bad last year, and so he just lies Harry on his side so he doesn't choke on his own blood and prays that the convulsing stops soon. 

In less than two minutes it does, and Harry vomits over the side of the sofa and onto Peter's shoes. He's shaking all over, tears and blood and vomit smeared across his face as he pleads;

"Take me home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't had much time to edit this tonight but i wanted to get it up before my exams next week, so bare with any typos or errors i'll check them a little later


End file.
